


Far from home

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Incest, M/M, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 05:10:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13873845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: Ficlet with the premise:  What if Euron's forces aided in the sack of Winterfell instead of Ramsay's?





	Far from home

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last year. It's a fragment from a larger work that will probably never be written due to lack of time and ability. 
> 
> Euron, as always, is his own warning.

"My own boy," Euron crooned, his breath hot on Theon's neck. "I too know what it is to be cast out, to be an exile in one's homeland. Did not your father, my own brother, wrong me in such a way?" He chuckled. "And look now where he is."

Theon swallowed hard. He could feel a lump in his throat. He wasn't sure whether it was sorrow or fear. Perhaps it was both. "Dead," he whispered. It was barely audible, but his nuncle was close and could hear his every whisper, nay, his every breath. 

"Dead," Euron repeated. He laughed, a sharp bark. "Feasting below with his god, the fool." He shifted, reclining on the bed, limbs sprawled over Theon’s tense form. “And here we are, my boy.” His hand, gloved in the finest of leathers, passed gently over Theon’s shoulder blades, ghosting over the goosepimpling skin until it lighted on the small of his back. “Yes,” Euron said, his voice curling with pleasure, “here we are, alive and well. We had better make the best of it,” he murmured, fingers tensing, gripping at Theon’s thin silken nightshirt. Theon felt his body tense, pulling away from Euron’s languid form.

"I came to your nuncle Aeron like this," Euron reassured Theon. "It follows not with the Old Ways, but I prefer my way." His hand slowly travelled down Theon's torso, fingers teasing at his laces, wriggling between the tie on his drawers until they found their mark. His nails were sharp against Theon's flesh. 

_Sharp like a woman's,_ Theon thought. He was trying to think of Kyra, but the Shade of the Evening on Euron's breath and the scrape of his beard against Theon's cheek pulled him hatefully from his distraction. _Sharp like a beast’s,_ he thought, was all he could think, knowing that despite his nuncle's closeness, despite his Winterfell quarters, he was far from home.


End file.
